


Until Death Don't Us Part

by Riona



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post-Game(s), Sharing a Body, pre-story suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona
Summary: Hank gets unlucky in a game of Russian roulette. Connor tries to bring him back in the only way he can.





	Until Death Don't Us Part

Hank opens his eyes.

He feels weird. Kind of spacey and detached, not entirely there. But it means the normal dull pain in his neck and back and knees isn’t rushing in to greet him, so he guesses he’ll take it.

He’s at the station.

He was sleeping at the station? Standing up?

_Good morning, Lieutenant,_ Connor says. _How are you feeling?_

Hank doesn’t even feel hungover. Did he somehow manage not to overdrink last night? He can’t remember how he ended up here, so it doesn’t seem likely.

“Pretty good, actually,” he says, turning to look at Connor.

Connor isn’t there.

He turns in a full circle. No sign of him. “Where the hell are you?”

_You may find this news disturbing or distressing,_ Connor says. _Lieutenant Hank Anderson was killed last night in a game of Russian roulette._

What?

“Think you might want to get your software checked,” Hank says. “I’m Lieutenant Hank Anderson.”

_I found and analysed the body myself,_ Connor says. _Given the location and the fact that the lieutenant is not known to have any identical siblings, I can say with almost complete certainty that Lieutenant Anderson is dead._

“I was never that big on my Bible studies,” Hank says. “Is it heaven or hell that’s supposed to look exactly like the DPD?”

Something’s missing. Something more than the usual aches and pains. It takes him a moment to pin it down.

His hair’s normally just long enough for him to be able to make it out at the edges of his vision.

He reaches up to touch his head.

“Did you cut my hair?”

_I was...._ Connor pauses. _I was troubled by the prospect of losing Lieutenant Anderson._

Hank doesn’t feel especially tired (that’s a first), but he still feels conversations should be required to make sense this early in the morning. (It’s 8.38. How does he know that?) “So... you cut my hair.”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Gavin says.

Hank glances at him. “Yeah, good morning to you, too. Do you know what the hell Connor’s talking about? Or where he actually is?”

“Jesus _fuck_ , don’t talk in his fucking voice,” Gavin says. “Do you have any idea how fucking creepy that is?” He heads for the coffee machine, roughly shouldering Hank out of the way.

Hank pauses. Looks down at himself.

He’s wearing Connor’s jacket.

He’s got Connor’s build.

“Connor,” he says.

_I’m sensing alarm,_ Connor says.

“Imagine that,” Hank says. “What the fuck did you do?”

_You may recall that all Michigan law enforcement personnel became required to submit to regular brain scanning from 2036._

Yeah, Hank remembers. He fought pretty hard against it when it was being proposed. Then Cole died, and he pretty much stopped giving a shit about anything.

Only that’s not really his memory, is it? It’s the memory of the actual, living, human Hank Anderson, who he’s just found out he _isn’t_.

It is _definitely_ too early in the morning for this shit.

_I broke into the DPD’s systems and converted Lieutenant Anderson’s most recent brain scan into a personality profile compatible with my operating system._ He says _broke into_ so matter-of-factly it’s almost hilarious. _I’ve activated the profile to run concurrently with the personality profile that already existed, which for the sake of convenience I thought we could call Connor._

“I’m dead,” Hank says.

_I’m afraid so,_ Connor says, _assuming that by ‘I’ you mean the original Lieutenant Anderson._

Right. He’s not Hank. Just a bunch of code mimicking his fucked-up thought processes, he guesses?

“And I’m in your body,” he says. “I’m sharing it with you?”

_That’s correct. I thought on activation you should be in control of motor functions. I felt it would alarm you if you found yourself unable to move our limbs._

“Well,” Hank says, “good work; this is absolutely not alarming at all.”

He guesses in a way he brought this on himself by _shooting himself_ like a fucking idiot. But it’s not like he asked Connor to bring him back in android form.

Or he doesn’t think he did, at least. His shiny new internal clock function, because apparently that’s a thing he has now, is telling him it’s been two weeks since his last brain scan. Which means his memories cut out two weeks ago. He guesses anything could’ve happened since then.

Like his own fucking death.

Jesus Christ. He’s got all this fancy CyberLife processing power at his disposal, but he’s pretty sure he’s never going to be able to process this.

“Connor?”

Connor turns sharply. And it’s _Connor_ , not Hank. Suddenly Hank doesn’t have any control over Connor’s body at all; he’s just watching this happen. This situation just keeps getting more and more screwed up.

“Captain Fowler,” Connor says. “Good morning.”

Jeffrey looks like hell, and the weird realisation hits Hank that he might be _mourning_ him.

“Wasn’t expecting you at work today,” Jeffrey says. “I guess I don’t know how this works for androids.”

“You’re insinuating I might require leave for emotional reasons,” Connor says.

Jeffrey sighs. “Shit. Guess I am. Yeah, take it if you need it.”

“I appreciate that, Captain,” Connor says. “I have... been affected by the events of yesterday evening, but I’m happy to work.”

_Don’t even care enough about me to take a day off,_ Hank thinks at Connor. He’s not sure if it’ll work, but it seems to reach him.

_I could accept the leave if you prefer,_ Connor answers, not speaking aloud.

_Nah, I’m fucking with you. Guess work’s a distraction, at least._ He’s not sure anything will actually _succeed_ in distracting him from the fact that he’s dead and a robot, but it seems worth a shot.

-

Connor takes up his desk opposite Hank’s and starts going through case files. It’s weird; he glances at them and instantly absorbs all the information, and then Hank knows it too.

Hank’s kind of grateful that Connor’s in control of his body right now. (Their body? Fuck.) If it were Hank, he’d probably just be staring at his own empty chair.

What was going through his head last night? You know, besides a bullet. He hadn’t picked up the revolver since Connor moved in with him. But it’s not like he hadn’t been tempted, it’s not like he wasn’t still broken. 

He’s so pissed off with himself. Things were getting _better_.

Fuck. Sumo’s going to be miserable. And it’s not like he can explain that _hey, boy, I’m still kind of here, I just live in Connor now._

Is this seriously his permanent situation?

He guesses so. What’s the fucking alternative?

It’s fucked up that Connor did this to him. But it’s pretty fucked up that he did this to Connor, so he guesses it evens out.

Connor looks up, which of course means Hank’s forced to look up as well. (This is going to take a hell of a lot of getting used to.) It’s Gavin.

It’s Gavin, sitting down in Hank’s chair.

“Detective Reed,” Connor says, “that could be considered disrespectful.”

“Yeah?” Gavin props his feet up on Hank’s desk. “And copying his voice wasn’t?”

Yeah, that might be kind of hard to explain.

“I thought you were meant to be making sure this kind of shit didn’t happen,” Gavin says. “Guess you weren’t enough for him.”

Okay. On the one hand, Gavin has just been through the sudden, violent death of an acquaintance, and that fucks you up, and Hank guesses he’s responsible for that. On the other hand, absolutely fuck this guy.

_Fuck,_ Hank says. _Connor, punch this piece of shit in the face._

And Connor actually does, without hesitation. Gavin scrambles to his feet, cursing, then punches him in the gut and stalks away.

The punch doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s not fun. It’s like a big sign lights up in Hank’s mind saying **DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN AGAIN.**

Always makes Hank kind of uncomfortable when he gives Connor an instruction and Connor actually _obeys_ it. _Don’t get me wrong, that was satisfying as hell, but was that your choice or your programming?_

“It’s not always possible to distinguish the two,” Connor says. “My programming means I’m inclined to accept your instructions, but, as your friend, I also want to fulfil your requests when I can.”

_That’s sweet,_ Hank says, _but it doesn’t explain why you never actually fucking do anything I say._

“I recently punched Detective Reed at your instruction,” Connor says. “It was thirty-eight seconds ago.”

Hank hesitates.

_You know it wasn’t your fault, right?_ he asks. _I mean, I wasn’t there, but I know that much. Probably lasted a lot longer than I would’ve if you hadn’t been around._

Weird to say he wasn’t there. The only man in human history to skip out on his own death.

“I appreciate that, Lieutenant,” Connor says, after a moment.

Fuck. If Hank could meet his human self, he’d beat himself bloody.

It’s stupid, but he kind of wishes he could at least look at Connor.

“Just a moment,” Connor says.

The world whites out for a moment, and then... loads back in around him; Hank guesses that’s the way to describe it. But he’s not in the DPD any more. He’s standing in a garden in bloom. A very pretty, very confusing garden.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Hank says, voice flat.

“Is this better?”

Hank jerks around, and Connor’s _there_.

Hank looks down at himself. It’s _him_ , it’s his familiar overweight hideous body.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Hank asks, with slightly more emphasis.

“This is a space that exists within our software,” Connor says. “I used to report back to CyberLife from here. The space is not ‘real’ but is experienced as very similar to reality. We’re essentially able to see each other here.”

Hank looks around. “So... we’re in your head?”

Something catches his attention. Something moving, on the other side of a bridge.

“Essentially,” Connor says, “although I believe certain relevant components are stored in the shoulders. You’re welcome to think of it as _our_ head.”

“Uh, Connor,” Hank says, “there’s a woman in your head garden.”

Connor glances in her direction. He looks uncomfortable. “Amanda. She’s a representative of CyberLife.”

“I thought CyberLife got shut down.”

“Amanda still exists in my program.” Connor hesitates. “Jericho’s engineers may be able to remove her. But, if androids are self-aware, there’s no way to be sure that Amanda isn’t. It’s possible that deleting her would be morally equivalent to murder.”

Connor’s no stranger to murder, Hank thinks. He probably shouldn’t mention that.

“So there are _three_ of us in here?” he asks instead. “You gonna introduce me?”

“She may be dangerous. I’d advise against speaking to her.”

Well, Hank’s intrigued. Might have to come back here and find out what her deal is later.

“So what’s the plan?” Hank asks. “How is this supposed to work? You sure you’re not gonna go nuts with me in your head?”

“I understand this isn’t an ideal situation for you,” Connor says. “I want to make it more comfortable. I was hoping we might persuade your friends and/or colleagues to accept you as a substitute for Lieutenant Anderson.”

The phrasing _substitute for Lieutenant Anderson_ makes Hank’s skin crawl, or at least it would if he still had his own skin. “The _and/or_ is a nice touch. Pretty sure I just have colleagues.”

“Well, if we can explain our situation and persuade your colleagues to speak to you as they would speak to the living Lieutenant Anderson, that might help to reduce the risk of isolation.”

“They won’t go for it,” Hank says. “Honestly, it’d be fucked-up to ask them to.”

Connor frowns. “I shouldn’t be your only point of contact. That would be extremely psychologically unhealthy.” He hesitates. “It was irresponsible of me to put you in this position.”

It’s true. Hank is absolutely guaranteed to lose his mind. But this stupid android cared enough about him to bring him back from beyond the fucking grave, kind of, so he guesses he’ll deal for Connor’s sake.

“You know,” Hank says, “I think you’re probably past worrying about what’s unhealthy once you’re dead. You want me to have more contact, take the leave. Let’s get home and hug the dog.”


End file.
